


From A Safe Distance

by MinilocIsland



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Established Relationship, Evakteket Challenge, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 06:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16805461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinilocIsland/pseuds/MinilocIsland
Summary: Isak hasn't bothered to watch skiing for years. Or, so he claims. Even knows him too well not to sense the truth.





	From A Safe Distance

**Author's Note:**

> This fills the prompt "skiing" for the Evakteket Skamenger Hunt – a million thanks to H, Kit and Immy for organizing yet another of these fabulous events!  
> The lovely champagneleftie looked this over for me – thank you, darling P <3

He wakes up alone.

Luckily, it can’t be too early – the crinkled sheet under his hand illuminated in grey. The spot beside him cold, however, and the pillow bears no evidence of Isak, no imprint of his head on the cover.

The duvet is gone, though, leaving a vast, empty expanse of white fabric beside him.

He’s woken up enough now to notice the incessant clinking sounds coming from the direction of the living room. Sounds that are vaguely familiar, that remind him of something, though he can’t say what. Not yet, at least.

As his vision as well as his hearing sharpens, he can see the white and blueish light of the TV reflected in the ceiling, through the doorway to their living room.

The clinking continues, like an inconsistent ringing of bells, coming and going, sometimes accompanied by a muffled shouting.

He shuffles towards the side of the bed, clutching the duvet around him as he takes the few steps over the threshold, the floor boards cold and firm against his sleep-soft feet.

Isak’s hair has grown a little longer than usual over the past month, the stress of late November materialized as frizzy, wild tufts lying over the back of the couch. His face turned towards the TV, away from Even, the duvet a heap on his lap.

The curtains are drawn, but despite that, it’s obvious that the day out there won’t be a sunny one – only grey, faint light seeping in at the sides.

As Even turns his attention to the TV, the clinking cowbell sounds make sense, following the skiers on the screen, accompanied by the cheering of the crowds gathered along the track.

“I haven’t watched skiing for years,” he says as he sits beside Isak, folding his long legs underneath himself, gently lifting the corner of Isak’s duvet so that their knees can touch.

Isak doesn’t turn his head, just reaches a hand out, letting it find its spot on the inside of Even’s thigh, close to the kneecap, thumb resting along the tendon leading to the hollow of his knee.

“Me neither,” Isak says, eyes fastened on the men on the screen clenching their jaws, long, heavy strokes of their arms propelling them forwards. The sky over the event is equally grey to the light in their room. “It’s in Lillehammer,” he continues.

That explains it. Same sky, same clouds. The quiet of their apartment much calmer, though – except for the perpetual __heja,_ heja, heja! _and the piercing jingling of cowbells.

Even watches Isak who watches the skiers, the hand on his thigh unmoving, heavy and warm against Even’s still sleep-sensitive skin.

It’s not often that Isak is awake before him, still, especially not on a Saturday, but Even knows. December, the epitome of togetherness, of community, of family – it still stirs unwanted memories in Isak. And however included he’s become in Even’s family, however welcome he is, and however hard his father tries, inviting them for gløgg on the Sunday before Christmas, sending them a card, texting every now and then – Even knows. Isak’s teenage years, the years before Even met him, the years he still wishes, sometimes, that he’d been able to be there, even if he knows it’s not possible –

The memories don’t fade that easily.

“We used to watch this all the time when I was little, you know. My mum cried when Marit won the World Cup when I was seven.” Isak pauses, and Even can see the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, can imagine hearing the click of it if he’d be close enough. “Funny, I got out of bed trying to stop thinking about her, and then I end up here.”

His laugh is humorless, dry, hand waving in the air with no clear purpose. Even moves closer, lifts his arm to wrap it around Isak’s shoulders. Isak’s sleeping t-shirt is white, threadbare, nagged at the seam at his neck, fabric soft underneath Even’s arm. Almost as soft as the skin on Isak’s shoulders, although not quite.

Isak’s head falls down to the side, comes to rest against Even’s chest, but his eyes don’t leave the screen. Even tries to follow, but the numbers in the little boxes at the bottom of the screen keep changing, the skier’s names disappearing just when he thinks he’s getting a hang of who it might be.

“That guy’s pretty good,” he tries, without even being sure who he’s really referring to. “He’s fast.”

Isak huffs underneath his arm. “Yeah. No way he’s gonna last throughout.”

“Halfvarsson,” Even reads, half out loud, almost getting the syllables right, attentive to Isak’s responding snort. “He’s Swedish, right?”

An arm sneaks in behind his back, fingertips walking their way around his side, and down to his hip, stroking the fabric of his briefs. “You’re cute when you’re trying too hard, you know.” He doesn’t have to see Isak’s face to know that this time, his smile is for real.

He lifts his hand, cards it through the untamed, sleep-knotted curls at Isak’s temple. “Do you wanna go visit her? We could go tomorrow. Or today.”

“Maybe.” Isak pulls the duvet up underneath his chin, drawing himself closer, shoulder jutting into Even’s ribs before he shifts, aligning his upper body along Even’s side. His eyelashes tickle against Even’s bare chest as he blinks, clearing his throat. “Let’s just chill for now, okay? I’ll think about it later.”

“We can chill. Whatever you want, baby.” Even lets his arm drape over Isak’s back, lets himself feel the muscles underneath the t-shirt, the knobs of Isak’s spine against his palm. The sinewy, stubborn strength of him incarnated in his flesh.

Isak exhales, warm wisps of breath coming through his nose and sweeping over Even’s nipple, tickling him to his core without Isak even knowing.

“That guy’s pretty hot, though,” Isak says, nodding towards the tv.

“We’re in black and red, right?” Even squints his eyes. “How can you know that he’s hot when you can’t even see his face?”

“Without the glasses and the hat and all that spit forming on his chin, he is kind of hot, yeah,” Isak says. “You’ll see.”

“You’ve _been_ following!” Even knows he must sound incredulous. “Here I sit, on a regular December Saturday, having no idea that my boyfriend has been a _cross-country skiing nerd_ all along.”

“I’m not!” Isak protests, but without heat. “It’s common knowledge, Even. Everyone knows who Klæbo is. But okay, maybe I’ve been following. A bit.”

The competition must be coming to an end now, the commentators’ voices clearly more excited by the second as the skiers come to a climb, side by side.

“Is he winning?” Even tries to make sense of the shouting from the sides. “Is that guy Russian?”

Not for the first time, Even gets a phantom feeling of having X-ray vision, almost being able to see Isak’s eyes rolling through the back of his head. “The timekeeping is individual nowadays, Even,” Isak huffs against his chest. “Not like when you _old_ people were little.”

Even barely has any idea what that means, but one thing, he knows. He’ll be sure to remember everything about skiing he can muster from now on. If nothing else, maybe he’ll be able to impress Marianne with it next time.

The Norwegian guy on screen – was it Klæssbo? – has crossed the finish line, throwing himself to the ground, chest rising and falling violently with each ragged breath, before he rolls over and tears the glasses and cap from his head, revealing a beet-red face, hair standing in every direction, stare wild.

“You’re hotter,” Even decides, sneaking a hand underneath the duvet, accidentally tangling his fingers in the hairs on Isak’s stomach, making him jump.

Isak shifts beside him then, face turning up towards him, meeting his eyes for the first time since he came into the room. “You too. Even if you don’t have a clue about skiing.”

“I didn’t know that was part of being hot.” Even’s thumb fits perfectly along the ridge of Isak’s hip, fingers splayed out on the top of his thigh, and he can’t really explain the relief he feels when Isak presses himself against it.

“It’s not.” Isak’s arm around his neck, and Even doesn’t know if the TV has fallen quiet by itself, or if he just can’t hear it anymore.

It hardly matters anyway, when Isak lifts his hand and pulls the duvet up over their heads, shielding them from everything else. For as long as they decide.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [irazor](https://irazor.tumblr.com) on tumblr – come say hi! <3


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